I Don’t Know How Much I Weigh—And I Prefer It That Way

My weight is a complete mystery to me. OK, maybe not complete, but I’ve been working off the same approximate weight for a few years now. And I really prefer it over knowing the actual number.

When I lived with my parents, I weighed myself every single time I walked into the bathroom. I stepped onto the scale right before doing my business, right after (I was curious about how many pounds a big poop really added), before a shower, after a shower, with clothes on, with them off. I liked knowing the number, and I wanted to know what made it change. Mostly, I liked being able to blame any increases on my pooping schedule or the fact that I was wearing an extra-heavy sweater.

Constantly weighing yourself isn’t a great habit to develop. It makes you fixate on a specific number, and for those prone to obsessive-compulsive behaviors or anxiety disorders, experts say this can be damaging. For me, the obsessive weighing never spiraled out of control, luckily. It was more of a deep-seated curiosity I had about how much those small changes could make my weight fluctuate. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care. I cared what the numbers were. If they went up more than the few pounds I was allowed to fluctuate using the toilet, I made a mental note. Again, it never led me to do anything unhealthy, but it surely influenced me to “eat healthy” that day when I hadn’t been planning on it before. I knew it wasn’t a good thing to obsesses over, but I kept doing it because I could.

That is, until I moved out. Throughout college, I would hop on for a quick check-in every time I went home to visit my dad. But once the weekend ended, so did my knowledge. By the time I was out of college, I barely even checked when a scale was at my disposal. I'm 26, and ever since I’ve lived on my own, I have never owned a scale. Minus the fleeting moment when I stepped onto a scale in Bed Bath & Beyond last weekend, I haven’t touched one in a few years. (Yes, I see my primary care doc and gyno every year for checkups and have glanced at the scale. But I have no daily or weekly weigh-ins to compare it to, so the number just kind of goes in one ear and out the other.)

According to my five seconds of truth at that Bed Bath & Beyond in a strip mall in New Jersey, there’s a good chance I weigh at least 10 pounds more than I tell everyone. That makes sense. Within the past year, I’ve started a consistent strength training routine. I never lifted weights before, and never had any sort of muscle definition to speak of. Muscle is more dense than fat, so as I’ve gained muscle, it would make sense that I’ve gained weight even if I’ve leaned out a bit and lost some fat.

And I’ve never looked and felt more in shape in my life. I fit into my clothes better, I have killer confidence both in and out of my clothes, and I’m genuinely proud of the hardcore workouts I can do that I never would have dreamed I'd be able to huff and puff through. And I’ve gained 10 (or so) pounds. Hell, maybe I’ve gained 15. But does it even matter? The answer is a resounding NOPE.

It would be irresponsible of me to not mention that sometimes, completely ignoring your weight is a bad thing. Weight gain is a symptom of many health problems, like hypothyroidism and other hormonal imbalances, which plague women more often than men. Gaining a lot of weight can also predispose you to certain health problems, like type 2 diabetes. If you notice you’ve gained a significant amount of weight, it’s appropriate to check in with your doctor and let her know your concerns.

But if you’re maintaining healthy habits—eating well (most of the time) and exercising regularly, which I am—and still fit into your clothes, knowing you gained a few pounds isn’t helpful. Who cares? The problem is that we all do, which is why I’ve stopped looking. In this instance, knowledge is not power. Comparing the numbers to what they were yesterday tells me nothing, other than that maybe I ate too much salt and am retaining water, or I am a little backed up. And if I really did gain an actual 2 pounds over the course of a month? Whether it’s fat or muscle, as long as I feel great, fit into my favorite pair of skinny jeans, and can still make it through a 5-mile run, I have no use for an accurate reading on a scale. I’m just as happy to keep making one up that’s close enough. No one will ever know, including me. Ignorance is bliss.